Chapter 6
IRIS
When I step out, an empty cabin greets me.
Disappointment swirls through me but disappears soon enough when I walk into the small kitchen.
It's compact and entirely functional—open shelving lined with glass jars of dried beans, grains and spices, a deep farmhouse sink worn smooth with use, a cast iron pan still sitting on the gas burner.
The counters are scarred wood, dark with age, and every surface is clean and deliberate.
A man who knows exactly where everything lives and likes it that way.
For just a second, I can imagine the both of us cramped into that kitchen, bodies touching, me babbling and him grunting as I whip up something he will devour.
Before he devours me too.
God, lusting after the man who rescued me is one thing but imagining scenarios where I’m nesting in this little cabin is something else.
The scent of cinnamon and butter and something eggy and warm hits me. My stomach growls loudly, pulling me from fantastical, imaginary scenarios to reality.
The dining table is small, solid, built from the same dark wood as the floors. It has the same deep grooves and stains, the same story written into its surface. I run my fingers along the edge and wonder if he made it himself.
A man who builds things with his hands, appreciates the beauty of the natural world around him, works the land even. Unlike the polished, suave mafiosos with their soft, manicured hands. How he can only see the worst of what he’s done, whatever that is, is beyond me.
A full plate sits on a green placemat. French toast, thick cut and golden, dusted with cinnamon. A small bowl of blueberries and blackberries, fat and dark. Four strips of bacon, crisp. And a pot of what smells like chamomile tea, still steaming.
I stand there for a moment and take it in, my heart thumping in my chest with amazement.
He made it abundantly clear that I was an unwanted guest. And yet he went out of his way to prepare this for me. To feed me. To make sure I wouldn't go to bed hungry in his house.
I don't know what to think of this man. But I know my instinct is right that he’s worth knowing. Worth wanting.
Breakfast for dinner, I said earlier, half joking, half starving. And he made it happen.
I sit down, pour the tea and take my first bite.
A moan escapes me. The French toast is perfect—custardy in the middle and caramelized at the edges, the berries sharp and sweet against it, the chamomile tea fragrant and settling.
He clearly makes a note of anything I say.
Files it away somewhere behind those green eyes.
I'm disappointed he's not here to witness my bold move—me, parading around his cabin in nothing but his oversized t-shirt, bare-legged and bare everywhere else. But I'm also grateful for the reprieve.
The man is intense in a way I've never encountered before, and the feelings he evokes in me are equally intense. I need a moment to just breathe without him in the room. To anchor myself back into me.
I close my eyes for a moment and yes, I want to do this. I want him. I want to choose who makes love to me the first time. There’s a lump in my throat, along with the wanting. Because he’s given this to me. Made me see myself differently. Turned this horrible day into a milestone.
My plate’s almost empty when I also realize this is my only chance to snoop on my mystery mountain man. So I pick up the small bowl of blueberries and wander.
The floorboards are warm under my bare feet near the stove, cooling as I move toward the front of the cabin where a finger of cold seeps in under the heavy door.
The smell of cinnamon and butter still hangs in the air, wrapping around me like a safety blanket.
My damp hair’s cool against the back of my neck, the only cold thing on me.
There are books everywhere. Battered spines, heavily read. Military history, survival guides, a surprising number of romance and even what I would call women’s fiction with cracked spines that suggest they've been read more than once.
A man who thinks and tries to understand the world. A man who feels things, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
A worn armchair sits angled toward the fireplace, a side table with a ring stain from a mug used in the same spot every night.
His spot. I can picture him there, the fire low, a book open, the silence of the mountain all around him.
And I can see myself at his feet, my back against his legs as I knit a sweater for those broad shoulders.
Can imagine crawling into his lap because I would want to prove I’m more interesting than the book he’s reading.
Can see myself sinking into his caresses and this place.
My chest does something quiet and aching at the image.
I pop a blueberry into my mouth and keep moving, running my free hand along the pine wall, the wood smooth and cool under my fingertips. The warmth from the stove reaches even here, a low steady heat that the stone fireplace will add to later.
Outside, through the single window, the Black Pine Mountains are dark shapes against a sky thick with stars.
I've never seen so many stars in my life.
I stand there for a moment, bare feet on warm wood, blueberries in hand, his t-shirt grazing my thighs, and feel something I haven't felt in as long as I can remember.
Like I could belong here, fit here, when I haven’t fit anywhere else in my life.
The thought is as painful as it is provoking.
I rinse my dishes and pad toward the bedroom. The sheets are plain and white and smell like cedar and clean air. I climb in, pull the covers up to my chin and wonder if I’ll stay awake waiting for him to come in.
Interestingly enough, I don’t.